words, King Marsil's nephew came riding in front of the
battle. "Ho, felon Franks!" he cried, "ye are met at last. Betrayed
and sold are ye by your King. This day hath France lost her fair fame,
and from Charlemagne is his right hand torn."

Roland heard him. With spur in side and slackened rein, he dashed upon
the heathen, mad with rage. Through shield and hauberk pierced his
spear, and the Saracen fell dead ere his scoffing words were done.
"Thou dastard!" cried Roland, "no traitor is Charlemagne, but a right
noble king and cavalier."

King Marsil's brother, sick at heart to see his nephew fall, rode out
with mocking words upon his lips. "This day is the honor of France
lost," he sneered.

But Oliver struck his golden spurs into his steed's side! "Caitiff,
thy taunts are little worth," he cried, and, pierced through shield
and buckler, the heathen fell.

Bishop Turpin, too, wielded both sword and lance. "Thou lying coward,
be silent evermore!" he cried, as a scoffing heathen king fell beneath
his blows. "Charlemagne our lord is true and good, and no Frank shall
flee this day."

"Montjoie! Montjoie!" sounded high above the clang of battle, as
heathen after heathen was laid low. Limbs were lopped, armor flew in
splinters. Many a heathen knight was cloven from brow to saddle bow.
The plain was strewn with the dying and the dead.

In Roland's hand his lance was shivered to the haft. Throwing the
splintered wood away, he drew his famous Durindal. The naked blade
shone in the sun and fell upon the helmet of Chernuble, Marsil's
mighty champion. The sparkling gems with which it shone were scattered
on the grass. Through cheek and chine, through flesh and bone, drove
the shining steel, and Chernuble fell upon the ground, a black and
hideous heap. "Lie there, caitiff!" cried Roland, "thy Mahomet cannot
save thee. Not unto such as thou is the victory."

On through the press rode Roland. Durindal flashed and fell and
flashed again, and many a heathen bit the dust. Oliver, too, did
marvelous deeds. His spear, as Roland's, was shivered into atoms. But
scarcely knowing what he did, he fought still with the broken shaft,
and with it brought many a heathen to his death.

"Comrade, what dost thou?" said Roland. "Is it now the time to fight
with staves? Where is thy sword called Hauteclere with its crystal
pommel and golden guard?"

"I lacked time in which to draw it," replied Oliver, "there was such
need to strike blows fas